


young and stupid (you might run)

by y9gurt (rydellon)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Panic Attacks, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), and language, literally just projection, no beta im dying, ooh yuh get it i guess, rated for tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28499502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rydellon/pseuds/y9gurt
Summary: WilburSoot:tommy can we vcor talkTommy stares blankly at his screen.(orThere are three problems with Tommy's current situation.)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 145





	young and stupid (you might run)

**Author's Note:**

> holy fuck this is fully just projection. i wrote this at 2am because i have fucking problems. if you know me do not read this or just dont let me know you saw i know some of you have notifs on. 
> 
> if tommy ever says he’s uncomfortable with shit like this it’s coming down in the blink of a fucking eye it just feels freeing and shit to post it. this work in no way reflects what i think of tommyinnit or who tommyinnit is as a person. i do not know him. this is just...me
> 
> if i got the tags even slightly wrong please tell me. 
> 
> title from the other side of paradise by glass animals

Tommy pressed the end call button in discord and immediately brought his knees up to his chest, putting his hands in his hair and tugging at it, to the point where it bordered on the edge of slightly painful. 

_Fuck._

He’s fucked up, and he’s fucked up bad. 

The discord call was supposed to just be fun between all of them, but Tommy just had to try and multitask during it didn’t he. He just had to fucking multitask and now something was broken and it was all his fault. He broke something and then he opened his mouth and broke something else and, to be perfectly honest, he was surprised that he actually left the call of his own accord and didn’t get fucking kicked like he should’ve been. He hadn’t talked for a few minutes (suspicious behaviour for him, in any normal scenario) and at that point they could’ve all just switched to another call without him in it. They didn't, but they didn’t notice his silence either. He wonders why. 

His eyes stay locked on the still-active discord call as his hands slowly let go of his hair. He can feel the loss of control slowly taking over his body as his legs slump over from their upright position, the loss of support causing his torso to start falling down until it’s resting on his legs. He can feel his body start to tip sideways off of his chair, can feel his arms dropping limply to his sides, and can feel the jerk of his headphone cord as he falls to the floor, limbs sprawling out underneath him as he seems to entirely lose control of his body. 

His mind is racing at the speed of sound while simultaneously making him feel like he’s dragging his feet in quicksand, every thought like another footstep he takes slowly and sluggishly, fighting for the next thing to pop into his head. At the same time his brain is completely empty, the feeling both overwhelming and all consuming, seeping into his limbs and through his esophagus up to his throat, blocking it almost entirely. 

Even if he was still in the call (He isn’t. His headphones are silent. He sort of wishes he was, so he wasn’t stuck alone with himself, but it is what it is.) he didn’t think they would notice. Why would they?

Slowly, the all-encompassing emptiness lets up ever so slightly, and there’s a tiny spot in the back right of his brain that seems to work properly for a split second. In that split second, his neck, upper chest and shoulders spasm and get lifted off of the floor, before the spot fills in once again and they drop back down, slamming Tommy's head on the carpet floor of his room. 

This process repeats several more times, and Tommy is powerless to stop it, along with the brief moments where his fingers or toes twitch involuntarily, which send shoots of dulled out, empty panic through his brain, telling him that he shouldn’t be moving, that something is _wrong_ , that moving is _wrong_ and if Tommy does it again there will be consequences. 

He doesn’t like when his fingers twitch. 

He didn’t check the time before his body slumped over, and so after what feels like hours on the carpeted floor of his room (but what could have been minutes, seconds, days), Tommy’s body decides it’s okay for him to move again, okay for him to sit up and get back into his desk chair, and definitely okay for him to ignore the fact that sitting or standing makes him feel lightheaded, and if anything he should still be on the floor. 

Standing up, for him, is a big deal. 

It’s sort of a larger motor function (Tommy doesn’t know why exactly he’s sitting back at the computer when his brain screeches at him at the thought of using his keyboard or mouse) so it’s okay to do, but the splay of his fingers over the carpet (the separation between his fingers, the texture, the _touching_ ) sort of makes him feel like he’s everything currently bad in the world. 

He pushes through it and sits up anyway, leaning against his chair for another minute or two before he actually stands. That's when the light feeling comes, and that's when Tommy decides that if he’s going to pass out he’s going to do it in his chair, not standing up in a place where he can land on the floor and potentially hurt himself. (He won’t risk it. He’s not…he doesn’t do…he wouldn’t.) He avoids looking at what’s broken and instead fixates on the other screens in front of him. 

Discord is still open on his computer, so he moves his arm (It feels like lead, like he should have a pulley system in place to lift a part of his own body. He hates it.) to his mouse and places his hand on it. It feels weird, wrong even. His brain wants him to stop. It seems okay though, doesn’t feel like his world will immediately implode, so he continues. 

He moves the mouse to the exit button on the app before he sees the little ‘1’ next to Wilbur's name. Wilbur's DMed him. He moves the mouse over there instead and tries to click on the icon. his finger won’t move. He pushes his forehead down onto his finger and clicks it. 

_WilburSoot:_

_tommy can we vc_

_or talk_

Tommy stares blankly at his screen. 

There are three problems with Tommy's current situation. 

The first one is that he can’t speak. Even if he tries to, he just knows that nothing will come out. He will open his mouth and there will be just air and void, and he will flap his hands because he’s fucking _frustrated_ and nothing will be okay and nobody will be happy. 

Tommy's throat is full of empty, and it blocks his words from coming out. the part of tommy’s brain that wants him to speak (and how it wants, how it wants so bad) is buzzing, yelling, pushing at his skull and yet is also empty and dull, leaving him in the sort of numb equilibrium that he hates. He’s TommyInnit. He yells, he shouts, he laughs, and he can talk to his friends. He can talk. 

He can.

The second problem is that he also can’t type. His fingers feel stiff with disuse, even though he uses them every day, and had even used them earlier while talking to Tubbo. They’re cold now, frozen solid in a mental block of ice that he seems to have created for himself. He doesn’t know how to melt it. he doesn’t think he can. 

The thought of typing with his fingers and brain being the way they are is petrifying, and he can’t help but bang his head against the back of his chair in frustration at it. Itdoesn’t help. (If anything, it makes things worse. It freezes his arms and legs and fingers even more but he’s still upright so he’s okay. He tries not to think about it.)

The third thing is that he really just doesn’t want to speak to Wilbur right now. He has no idea what Wilbur’s going to say (Logically, _and he says logically because fuck if his brain is being logical right now_ , Wilbur isn’t mad at him. At most, Wilbur is slightly disappointed and maybe a little annoyed because while Tommy is young he isn’t five and can control his words but honestly? He thinks that might be worse.) but he’s sure it isn’t good, and when Tommy has a problem his first instinct is one that’s been built in by years of doing the one sport tall lanky kids were good at—running far, far away. 

(Tommy's brain likes to take things that have happened to him once and hold onto them, even if they should be relatively meaningless and said or done in passing. This is why he shoves tiny, beautiful pebbles in his pockets. This is why he holds onto the philosophy: _Don’t apologize unless you truly mean it_. This is why Tommy is afraid people will leave him if he fucks up one too many times. This is why he has a folder of bee photos on his phone. Only the middle ones are important.)

Tommy knows what he did wrong this time, for a change. He knows he said something, probably. He knows it made someone upset, probably. He knows that that should be his apology. _I'm sorry that I made you upset, I'll try not to do it again._ He doesn’t mean that, and that’s why he can’t say it. He might try but he forgets and forgets and forgets again and that can’t count as trying, because if it does then what does that mean about him. If that’s trying, does that mean what happens in the end is failing? (He pretends it doesn’t count.)

He is TommyInnit, and he will inevitably fuck up again. He is TommyInnit, and when he fucks up too many times, people leave him. He is TommyInnit, and he can run fast and for long periods of time. 

He moves his mouse so that it hovers over the exit button, and slams his fist onto the left-side button of his mouse. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you related to this in any way get help. the banging head thing isn't self harm/implied self harm btw it just fucking happened and idk what it was but i can tell you the floors of my room sure arent carpet and i sure wasnt hung up. 
> 
> [follow me on twitter im cool i swear](https://twitter.com/y9gurt)  
> 


End file.
